SomebodyShotThePresident

Now then, about the holiday..
Yes, I've been on package tours many times before so your advert really baught my eye.
Good, jolly good…
What's the point of going abroad if you’re just gonna be treated like a sheep? Carted around in buses, surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Boventry
Absolutely…
…in their bloth baps and their cardigans and their transistor radios bomplaining about the tea, 'Oh they don't make it properly here do they?' stopping at endless Majorcan bodegas, selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in cotton sun frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh cos they 'overdid it on the first day'!
Yes. I know just what you mean…
…and being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellevueses and Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes and swimming pools full of draught Red Barrel and fat German businessmen pretending to be acrobats and forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging in to the queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss your bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International CuisineAbsolutely.
Now…
… and every Thursday night there's a bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some big fat bloated tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners.
Would you be quiet, please?
And adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby legs and trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called ManuelBe quiet.… and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman remains where you can buy cherryade and melted ice cream Would you be quiet?…and bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel
Shut up.
…and one night they take you to a typical restaurant with local atmosphere and colour and you sit next to a party of people from Rhyl who keeps singing 'I love the Costa Brava,
Shut up!
I love the Costa Brava’ and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and last Tuesday's 'Daily Express' and he goes on and on and on about how Ian Smith should be running the country and how many languages Margaret Powell can speak and she throws up all over the Cuba Libres. Then spending four days at Luton Airport on a five-day package tour but dry, British Airways-type sandwiches.
SHUT UP!
...you can’t even get a glass of Watley’s Red Barrel. ‘Cause you’re still in England and the bloody bar closes everytime you’re thirsty. And the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ashtrays. They keep telling you it'll only be another hour. They know damn well your plane is still in Iceland. They had to turn back and take...Shut Up!To take a party of Swedes to Yugoslavia before they load you up at 3 a.m. in the morning and then you sit on the tarmac for hours because there are 'unforeseen difficulties'. i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris. When you finally get to Malaga airport everybody's queuing for the bloody toilet. Queuing for the bloody armed customs officers and queuing for the bloody bus that isn’t there waiting to take you to the hotel that hasn’t yet been built. When you finally get to the half built Algerian ruin called the Hotel Del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi, there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the bog, there’s no water in the taps. There's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet,…
SHUT UP! SHUT UP!
…and half the rooms are double-booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent, 24-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door. Meanwhile the Spanish National Tourist Board promises you the raging cholera epidemic is merely a mild outbreak of Spanish tummy rather like the previous outbreak in 1660. Even the bloody rats are dying from it.
As early as the late 14th century or indeed as late as the early 14th century the earliest forms of jape were divisible…
Meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting 16-year-olds for kissing in the street. And finally, at the last day in the airport lounge everybody’s buying little, awful, horrid donkeys with their names on and bullfights posters with their own names on like Antonio and Mr. Brian Pules of Norwich. And then finally, when you get to bloody Luton the flight’s grounded for bloody four hours till they find a plane to take you back to Manchester. And when you finally get to Manchester there’s only another bloody bus you have to wait 60 years for...